days and days and days
by deadlybeautiful
Summary: She’d been gone for days and days and days. Far too many to count now -even if he’d wanted to. Which Tarrant really hadn’t, because Time was a terribly awful thing to think about without Alice.


**I don't own Alice in Wonderland. **

**And for those curious about the amount of tea Tarrant drinks, I'd say about five cups a day, wouldn't you?**

* * *

She'd been gone for days and days and days. Far too many to count now -even if he'd wanted to. Which Tarrant really hadn't, because Time was a terribly awful thing to think about without Alice (dreadful, Time, Tarrant really wasn't on very good terms with him, as it was always six o'clock) so instead he counted how long she was away in cups of tea, hats hatted, and bouts of madness.

* * *

Tarrant waited.

He kept waiting, and waiting, and waiting.

But, nothing.

It'd been 912 cups of tea since she'd said she'd be back.

_I'll be back before you know it._

He remembered she'd said that on Frabjous day - the happiest day in Underland- with a vial of Jabberwocky blood in her hand and that graceless smile on her lips, looking eternally Alice in a way that made his mind rattle like his head hand just rolled down the stairs, not the Jabberwocky's (though, he supposed it could have something to do dancing the futterwacken- but no, the smile was most definitely the cause.)

_I'll be back before you know it._

But he knew it, and she still wasn't back yet.

* * *

Tarrant waited.

He kept waiting and waiting, and waiting.

But, nothing.

61 bouts, and he missed her.

He feared she's broken her promise- that she's forgotten about him.

He hadn't forgotten about her, because after all how could he? After she'd saved everyone and slain the Jabberwocky and restored the White Queen to the crown and stolen a bit of his heart? No, never. Every time he saw blue he remembered her. Her tea-colored eyes were imprinted in his mind, and her untamable golden hair consumed his dreams, curling through them like silken vines. Just the thought of her graceless smile caused a yearning in his chest so strong that sometimes he forgot to breathe (he'd gone practically purple several times, and once even frighteningly blue- which had only caused him to think more about Alice.)

* * *

Tarrant waited.

He kept waiting, and waiting and waiting.

But, nothing.

365 hats, and still no Alice. His hands are stained more than usual, and the madness takes him for longer. There are times when he looks around and has no idea how he's gotten there, or who he's hurting. Those times his workshop is in ruins- a bonnet ripped at the seams, a bowler missing it's brim, a decapitated top hat, bolts of fabric torn and hanging every which way, and pins and needles scattered everywhere. His arms are covered in scars -burns and scratches and bleeds.

It's when he sees what he's done to his workshop, himself, that he misses her acutely. Because he remembers her hands on his face and her words whispered in his mind -_all the best people are_- and he wants to feel that calm that Alice brought again.

Sometimes, he thinks he'll never feel calm again -not without Alice.

* * *

Tarrant waited.

He kept waiting, and, waiting and waiting.

But, nothing.

1,826 cups of tea, and she still wasn't back.

In his dreams Alice is there -blond and bright eyed and beautiful, just like she's always been- and she's in a strange place, where the animals don't talk and nonsense is everywhere because there is no nonsense. She's always there in her sky dress, saying things that people don't like, and he's there too. She always smiles her graceless Alice smile and asks for his name.

Because she doesn't remember him at all.

* * *

Tarrant waited.

He kept waiting and waiting and waiting.

But, nothing.

He's stopped counting the bouts, because it's become far too difficult, but he's up to 2,735 cups of tea, and 547 hats.

No Alice.

He's starting to wonder if he dreamed her up, and if anything that had every happened to him had ever happened at all. If Alice was just a dream the what's to say she wasn't the only thing?

Alice.

Was it possible to fall in love with a dream?

Well, he was mad- _but all the best people are_- as mad as a hatter. And if anyone could fall in love with a dream, it was a madman.

If it had been a dream, it had certainly turned into a nightmare.

* * *

Tarrant waited.

He kept waiting, and, waiting, and, waiting.

But-

3,651 cups of tea, 730 hats, and countless bouts of madness and there's a figure in the clearing. He's kept the tea party going in between being Court Milliner (though Thackery and Mallymkun hardly ever attend, how inconsiderate of them,) just for the day that she came back, and now he can see sunshine curls and a forget-me-not dress. The tea is cold, the cream sour, and the cakes have mold, but there is Alice- being far too small and looking very much like she had the last time she'd been in Underland- and nothing else could have ever mattered more than the fact that she came back (that she remembered him.)

"Alice," he says, smiling as wide as he's ever smiled. There's a happy hysteria in him, and he basks in it. It's a good kind of madness- an Alice induced one. "You're late for tea, you know. _Naughty_."

"I beg your pardon," she said, which made him smile- because he missed her voice so much. He'd almost forgotten how low and sweet it was- like cream in tea. "But, how do you know my name?"

His smile was reduced to nothing.

"Yes, Tarrant," said Cheshire appearing out of thin air, stealing the tea cup meant for Alice- the blue one. "She's forgotten again."

"Again?" asked Alice, but Tarrant scarcely heard any of it.

He stood up abruptly, knocking over the tea and the cakes and breaking the cups, and stared at this wonderful girl, who looked so much like Alice -but was not truly Alice; not yet. Tarrant was tired of waiting.

Tarrant was sick of loving her, when she didn't even remember him.

Alice stared at him like he was mad, and yes, yes he was- _but all the best people are_- but he couldn't help it anymore. His chest hurt so much, and he was crying, and he couldn't help that either.

"You've changed again, Alice," he whispered.

"Yes, so they all tell me."

"Are you sure you don't remember me? Even the slightest?" Tarrant asked.

From his place at the table Chess- sipping tea from _Alice's_ teacup, the nerve of him- shook his head just the slightest, looking rather sad though the smile never really left his face (then again, it rarely did.) Tarrant ignored him. Alice was the one he wanted to hear it from.

"No. I think I'd remember someone like you."

"You'd think," he whispered, wondering if the words would taste any more bitter in his mouth. They didn't; they couldn't.

"Well, if that's the case, then I have no reason to be here," Tarrant decided, feeling very much like a hat turned inside out and chewed up by the Bandersnatch.

"Wait!"

His feet -such stubborn things feet are- wouldn't let him move another inch.

Until, of course, the madness struck.

"3,651 cups of tea, and 730 hats. That's how long I've waited, Alice! I'm not waiting anymore," he yelled, advancing. "You promised! You prom-"

"Tarrant!"

Cheshire appeared between them in a swirl of fur and a sympathetic smile, and Tarrant's eyes faded back into green.

Alice stands there being not-quite-Alice with scared tea -colored eyes and the most confused angle to her brow and Tarrant feels so horrible -he'd never attack Alice, no matter how much she hurt him, or how not-quite-Alice she was being.

"My apologies, Alice," he muttered, putting his top hat on. "You can find me at the White Queen's castle if you remember."

He was almost out of the clearing when he heard her.

"Promise?"

"If I recall, my dear," Chess drawled, answering. "You promised that you wouldn't forget, and yet it seems that you have."

"I _do so _wish I remembered whatever it is that I said I would. It would make everything far less confusing if only I could stop forgetting."

Tarrant didn't stop walking.

* * *

Tarrant waits.

He keeps waiting, and waiting and, waiting.

But-

3,660 cups of tea and 732 hats and-

"Hatter?"

He knew that voice -like cream in tea, indignant when angry, and trembling with tears. The voice had said silly things with petulant manner and stubbornly stated that she was dreaming and promised things that she hadn't kept.

He'd know that voice anywhere -anywhen; anywhat.

He didn't want to look, but he knew seeing Alice was always better than not seeing Alice, because he was Tarrant Hightopp and she was Alice (or not-quite-Alice, he wasn't sure yet) and Tarrant would always think that seeing Alice was better than not seeing Alice. Not that he felt much like Tarrant -but he must be Tarrant, because that's what Thackery had called him when he'd come for tea. So, being Tarrant (or not-quite-Tarrant, he supposed) he turned slowly, feeling exhausted down to the bone -like he had for days and days and days; since a girl with a graceless smile had broken his heart.

She stood there, looking the right size again, curls tangled and cheek scratched. She looked like Alice should, with knowledge and cleverness in her eyes, and dressed in blue -always in blue; Alice didn't look right in any other color.

He knew she'd remembered in that moment, though he couldn't have told you why exactly. She wouldn't have come if she hadn't -at least he thought not- but when had he ever been right about Alice anyway?

"Do you have any idea why a raven is like a writing desk?" her voice is soft, and he can hear the apology in it. Her sadness makes him sad- because it isn't right and Alice isn't supposed to be sad. She's supposed to be disagreeable and angry and determined and frustrated and happy and curious and clever. Not sad.

"I haven't the slightest," he whispered, turning away from her.

"I've found my memories, again," she whispered. "I've remembered."

"Yes, you have," not-quite-Tarrant said, keeping his back to her.

"I missed you," she whispered, voice so longing -and that can't possibly be right, can it? (because Alice couldn't possibly--)

"You can't miss something you can't remember," he says, feeling angry. "That's like saying that you breathe when there's no air."

The madness is pulling at him--pilling him down, and down and -

"I didn't know who I was missing. I just knew that there was someone that I missed."

The madness doesn't come.

He looks at her, with all of her muchness. "I waited," he whispered, feeling more like Tarrant. (Or, he supposed, like Tarrant _should_. And how can anyone _really_ know how one is supposed to feel--)

"I know."

"You forgot," he accused.

"I'm sorry," she cried. "I'm so very sorry."

Her tears crumbled him.

"Come here," he said, holding out his arms. "Before you drown yourself in your own tears."

"It wouldn't be the first time," she hiccupped.

She was across the room in his arms faster than he hoped she could be. She smelled just like he remembered -like strangeness and tea cakes (perfect, in his opinion) - and felt just like Alice should -contradicting soft and strong.

"Alice," Tarrant whispered, pressing her closer -always closer; she couldn't never ever be close enough. "Alice, Alice, Alice, you're terribly late you know?"

"Yes, terribly late indeed," she agreed, smiling gracelessly.

* * *

She'd been gone for days and days and days. Far too many to count -even if he'd wanted to- but she was back now, with her muchness and her smile and her disagreeability, and he'd never been happier.


End file.
